


lucky like that

by serendippety



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, also dean/ginny as it comes and goes, the other characters are mostly in the background
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendippety/pseuds/serendippety
Summary: It is times like these that Dean finds it hard to understand why no one else ever sees how special Seamus really is; how ridiculously simple and kind and loving the boy can be.“If you’re going to be the next Gryffindor ghost, you know I can’t follow you there too,” he answers affectionately.
Relationships: Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	1. 1 (I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha... i like deamus too

Fifth year, Dean thinks, is almost unparalleled in its strangeness. It’s like living a double life, because on one hand, he’s always slipping off to the Room of Requirements to practice with the DA, and on the other hand, he sits in a strange, blissful, ignorant normalcy when he’s spending time with Seamus. 

It’s not like Seamus doesn’t know – he knows what the DA is but doesn’t bother with the specifics of what they do and where they go, and he absolutely refuses to acknowledge why it’s even a thing. Dean is just glad it hasn’t soured their friendship; that as long as they pretend that Dean isn’t always disappearing at regular intervals on random days, then nothing has changed between them. 

It’s been half a year – half a year and still, Seamus won’t come around. Dean has enough patience to last a life time, even when he knows Seamus is wrong about this. He likes the Irish boy too much to let him just walk away, even if Dean wants to shake some sense into him. 

“Oy,” Seamus says loudly, as he always happens to be. The volume of Seamus is always wavering between fifty and hundred, but Dean quite likes that about him anyway. Seamus prods him with his feet. 

They're curled up in the common room on a Friday evening, near the roaring hearth. Outside, the rain falls in soft patters against the window panes. It's one of those evenings where they can pretend the world isn't rapidly spinning out of control. In the sanctity of the four walls, they get to pretend that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a myth; that the O.W.L.s are also a myth. 

“Hmm?” Dean says looking up, distracted as he had been with his sketchbook in his hand. He bats away the foot playfully and Seamus curls his leg back into himself at his corner of the sofa.

“He wasn’t listening,” Neville tells Seamus helpfully. There’s a game of Exploding Snap laid out between the two of them. They’re fully embracing the pseudo-normalcy, as if Umbridge hadn’t just instilled another one of her silly dumb rules. Seamus tosses a pair of cards onto the discarded pile.

“But he’s smiling,” Seamus says with a feigned sort of disgust. “What’s so funny?” He takes a glance at the sketchbook in Dean’s lap. “What are you drawing?”

Dean snaps the sketchbook close, putting it away. “Nothing,” he says quickly. Seamus gives him a weird look but Dean just shifts closer to the them, watching the cards start to tremble on the table. “They’re going to explode soon,” he points out. 

“Don’t change the subject, you tosser,” Seamus says in good humour, but his attention is successfully diverted back to the game and his conversation with Neville.

“So, I’m not going to sign up,” Neville continues and Dean has no idea what he’s talking about. Neville picks another pair and throws it onto the discarded pile. “Because everyone’s going to.”

Seamus blinks at him and then plucks out another pair. It also goes into the discarded pile. “But that’s part of the fun,” he points out. It’s still a part of a conversation that goes over Dean’s head.

“I know. But I could just hear it from you.”

“That’s boring,” Seamus says. “The tickets are fancy. I won’t give you mine.”

Neville nods, as if not really concerned. “That’s okay. But if you have a spare poster, I’ll have that.”

At that, Seamus looks up, grinning proudly at Neville. "Think I got a spare somewhere in my trunk."

Dean still isn’t quite following - Quidditch, he's guessing - but he at least knows they’re not talking about his West Ham poster. No one wants it on the account that it can’t move. Another card pair goes into the pile and Dean’s concentration is once more drifting to ginger hair and slender shoulders.

He sits there, sort of listening and sort of not. He only looks up from his half-drawing when he hears the urgency in Seamus’ voice. The cards on the table are positively shaking, as if the table had been caught in its very own earthquake. “You gotta hurry, Neville,” Seamus says, lower lip chewed from trying to hold in his laughter.

“I know, I know,” Neville says exasperated. But before he finds a matching pair, the discarded deck explodes on the table. Neville groans, covering his face. “Not again!”

And really, Dean should feel more urgency about the way school has been all around him. But he’s sitting in the quiet of the common room, with two of his closest mates in the world, mind empty except for the simple things. For a second, Fifth Year is exactly how it should be, and Dean will take it as it is.

-

They still have Hogsmeade weekends, which is nice. Of all the things Umbridge would allow them to have, a Hogsmeade weekend would seem pretty low on the list of priorities. But Dean isn’t complaining when he sees the notice pinned up. He’s been meaning to get some fancy parchment for a letter back home for some time now. 

He doesn’t intend to but he ends up oversleeping the morning of the trip. Dean wakes up to find his foot lodged into Seamus’ side, his friend having tickled his feet that have long since started to hang over the edge of his bed. In his retaliation, Dean had used his football reflexes to kick hard while he still walked the thin line between dream and reality. Neville had suggested getting a new bed, and Seamus had suggested they try transfiguring it themselves. Dean had to stop them both from accidentally setting his bed alight.

“I’ll be heading to Pippin’s Potions first,” Neville says once they’ve made it to Hogsmeade. “I want to try something for the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout let me have a go with raising one of them. You’ll both be heading to the post office, right?”

“Oh, you too?” Dean says to Seamus mildly surprised. He doesn’t mind of course, time with Seamus is always fun. But his friend looks at him, almost insulted. 

Neville shakes his head sadly and pats Seamus on the arm. “I’m sorry. This is kind of sad.”

“He does an arse job of listening these days,” Seamus says as if Dean isn’t just standing right there.

But Neville is waving them off as he heads off for the potions, promising them to meet back at the foot of the staircase that leads to the post office.

The seasons have started shifting into spring, and the hills around town are a lot more picturesque instead of bland, plain and dangerous. Seamus bounds ahead of Dean, taking the steps two at a time, stopping every now and then to wait for his friend whilst bouncing on the ball of his feet.

“The world blessed you with long legs, mate,” Seamus calls out like a reminder while he waits at the top of the stairs.

Dean huffs. Seamus’s excitement is evident in the way he just can’t stop moving. Dean thinks he should know what the occasion is – but with great shame, he admits he does not. Having spent so much time in and out of class, the DA, and his mind filled with the shape of a girl, he supposes he really hasn’t been exactly generous with his time with Seamus. He leaps up the rest of the stairs to level with his friend. 

“You're going to hate me, but tell me why you’re so excited again?”

“Really?” Seamus says incredulously. Seamus may have a temper, but Dean knows he uses it sparingly. And with the way Seamus is looking at him, Dean knows he hasn’t angered him but perhaps upset him a little. “I’ve only mentioned it like a hundred times, y’know?”

Dean but loops an arm around him in apology. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I’m listening now, aren’t I?”

Seamus elbows him, but there’s an excitement that burns in his eyes. “I’m only saying it once more so listen good. It’s the Intranational Quidditch Cup!”

Dean blinks. He feels an ounce of guilt knowing that Quidditch is something Seamus never shuts up about, and that he very definitely hadn’t been listening very well to Seamus because he only has the briefest recollection from a faded memory. But even so… “What’s that got anything to do with owl post?”

Seamus rolls his eyes – hard enough that they might pop out of his sockets. Harder still when Dean doesn’t look like he’s joking. “Where else would we sign up for the newsletter?” He asks, exasperated.

When they reach the counter, Dean finds a display stand showcasing the many Quidditch teams across the UK. The visual reads “British and Irish Quidditch League” in gold lettering that seem to shimmer on their own accord. The logos are animated, flashing something glamorous at him. He recognizes the shamrock of Seamus’ favourite.

“The Kenmare Kestrals are gonna do it again,” Seamus tells Dean proudly as he hands off his money and signs in a few forms. He points at the shamrock as if Dean didn’t already know.

“Irish, are ye?” The lady behind the counter asks kindly.

“Yes, ma’am,” Seamus responds, and he swells impossibly larger with pride – and the sight, Dean thinks, is awfully _cute_ because of how small Seamus really is. 

The lady gives him a hearty laugh, and pats Seamus on the arm. She hands him his change, a folded-up receipt and a flyer detailing the upcoming matches, spelled out in chronology. There’s an animated snitch that darts across the paper, silver wings batting in a blur. “’m quite the fan meself,” the lady chuckles. “Long live the Kenmare Kestrals!”

They squirrel away from the counter, pushing past a bunch of other students that had started to come in at a steady stream. They had filed in when Dean hadn’t been looking and it doesn’t really surprise him when he finds out that most of them are there for the newsletter sign ups. Before they leave, he gets himself a roll of fancy parchment and a wax seal stamp.

“Do you have a favourite team yet?” Seamus asks as he holds the door open for Dean. 

“Not really,” Dean answers truthfully. He has that one poster of Viktor Krum but he’d be lying if he didn’t say he got it specifically to mess with his friend.

They make their way back down the flight of steps. Neville is already waiting for them by the foot of the stairs, hand curled around a fancy glass vial he didn’t have before. “That’s okay,” Seamus nods reassuringly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “The Kestrals are gonna win, so maybe it’s better that way.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow, lips twitching into a half-smirk. Seamus’ hot-headed confidence has always been one of his charming points. It’s adoring at best and laughable at its worst. “What makes you say that?” He asks, digging his finger into Seamus’ side.

The boy gives a squawk of delight, shoving Dean away. He flashes Dean one of his goofy smiles, perfectly smug, and says, “It’s because we’re Irish. We’re _lucky_.”

The words send an unexpected sort of shiver down Dean’s back – like there’s supposed to be more to that than meets the eye, but before he can respond, Seamus bolts down the rest of the stairs and throws himself at Neville.

-

The dorm is warm and inviting after the trip to Hogsmeade. While Seamus still isn’t speaking to Harry and Ron, the three don’t make it insufferable to be in the same room together. Sometimes it’s like all three of them want to be friends again, but aren’t, just for the sake of the argument. They don’t fight, but the weight of the reality hangs heavy in the air. Dean somehow wishes he was back at the post office.

A loud crack resounds in the air as Ron sets off one of his crackers from Zonko’s. There’s a sugary haze in the room from all the candy that’s been consumed since they got back.

A shadow falls over Dean where he’s writing on the bed; a darkness elongating over the fancy roll of parchment he got earlier. Instinctively, he looks up. Seamus is looking down at him before settling himself against the headboard. He holds up a chocolate frog. “Want one?” he asks.

“Later,” Dean tells him before he goes back to his letter.

They sit there in companionable silence while something fizzes and pops in the room. 

“Oh, try this Harry,” Ron says in the background. It's immediately followed up by gagging noises and something that sounds akin to retching. They make a soft “oooh” and Neville joins them. “It’s pink!” Neville says, quite delighted.

There’s a burst of laughter and Dean looks up once more, distracted. He watches as Harry and Ron watch entranced while Neville continuously prods a strange pink blob with the end of his wand. It's a nice, momentary respite from everything - he knows they're trying to be normal. The whole thing with Ron's dad had shaken them both like a house of sticks. In the din of the room, he can almost believe they’re all normal Fifth Year students without a care in the world.

The only oddity, of course, is Seamus being ridiculously quiet. He looks up at his friend, surprising himself when he finds Seamus spacing out into the distance, a chocolate frog struggling between his thumb and forefinger. He looks unhappy, and Dean doesn’t like that.

He nudges Seamus by the thigh and the boy jerks out of it. “Shay, you feeling okay?”

Seamus blinks once. Twice. Then he smiles softly, like the slow parting of clouds on a dark day. The sweetness of his gaze has Dean’s breath hitching unexpectedly. “Spiffing,” he says, then looks down at Dean, head inclined to the side, “what’re you doing, anyway?”

“I’m writing to my sister,” Dean replies easily, mood steering back to familiar waters. He trusts Seamus with even the most private parts of his life. “She’s getting into secondary school this fall. There’s a school she really wants to be in.”

“Cool, cool. What do they learn at Muggle school?”

Dean frowns, realising for the first time in years that he doesn’t really know. He scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Uhm… English? And… uhm… Mathematics?”

Seamus makes a face. “What’s that?”

Dean shrugs, feeling a bit stupid all of a sudden. “I’m not really sure… Just a load of numbers, probably…”

He makes a face, mirroring Seamus’ but Seamus shakes his head and pats him one on the back; firm and hard, and most importantly, not with the hand that’s still holding onto the melted chocolate frog.

“She’ll get into the good school,” Seamus says with a lot of conviction, and Dean thinks he might actually believe Seamus on this. “Then she’ll teach you all the good stuff. You’d be unstoppable – all the Muggle and Wizard stuff cramped in your head.”

Now Dean isn’t very sure about how unstoppable he’d be when he can’t even remember five pages from History of Magic, but he feels the smile on his face before realising he’s even doing it. He likes it when it’s simple between them.

-

It’s still too cold to be sitting out by the Black Lake. But Dean insists that there’s a magical quality over at the Black Lake that can only be captured in the spring mornings. And he’s going to do his best to capture that while he still has time. Something tells him they won’t have much of that soon.

The morning dew soaks through his robes, making it uncomfortably wet. He regrets not bringing a mat, but regrets far more still (although in good humour), that he had brought Seamus along. 

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” Dean says jokingly as he pulls out his sketch book and his special box of charcoal pencils. But he’s grateful, because Seamus’ company is always one that fills the space nicely. It’s different from her – the girl that fills most of his head space – because while he does desire her, Seamus is everything else. 

These days, the castle feels less like home with Filch prowling and Umbridge strutting. 

Seamus makes a face as he settles next to Dean – an appreciable distance so Dean has the space to twist and turn, and to reach for his supplies. “I can feel the wetness on my arse,” he complains for what feels like the tenth time in two minutes. But then he lies down, sprawling out on the grass like a starfish, as if he hadn’t just been complaining about the dew.

Dean stifles a smile. “You’re just going to get more wet that way.”

“’Least it’s uniform.”

The spring breeze that rolls over the lake is freezing and cuts to the bones. It’s far from comfortable, and the additional chill seeps into his skin through the cold of the grass. Dean spends a good hour in the morning light, drawing in the most uncomfortable patch of grass he’s ever sat. He thinks Seamus might have nodded off despite the discomfort because his breathing is deep and even, eyes shut, body unmoving. Seamus has never been a morning person anyway.

So, it takes Dean quite by surprise when Seamus starts talking.

“Hey, Dean,” Seamus speaks up into the quiet, voice strangely gentle. Seamus has been doing a lot of that lately – a strange softness round the edges of his brash behaviour. Dean can’t quite explain it but it makes him feel special, being one of the lucky few to see this side of Seamus. He hums softly to let Seamus know he’s listening. “You know we’re gonna have to talk to Professor McGonagall about our careers eventually.”

Dean’s hand stills for a bit before he continues to trace out the shape of the lake. He hopes the Giant Squid graces them with its presence today. Seamus would like that. “Oh,” he says simply.

“Have you… thought about it?”

In truth, he has. “I was thinking of maybe going back to Muggle school to get qualifications in art,” he answers honestly.

“Huh,” Seamus says. Dean can’t tell what that’s supposed to mean. 

“What about you?”

Seamus stretches languidly. “I dunno. A Gryffindor ghost, maybe.” He sits up, shaking a stray leaf out of his hair. “Maybe I’ll be the next Peeves. Torment some Slytherins.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, you’ll be fantastic at that,” he says in jest but somehow, a part of him thinks that this conversation is supposed to be more serious than it is.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you not like using magic?”

Dean stops drawing again. He turns to look at his friend, curious. “’Course I do, why?”

Seamus shrugs, gaze averted. He plucks at the grass where his palms are laid. “I dunno. Feels like if you were to give it up and go back to the Muggle world, I wouldn’t be able to follow you there.”

It is times like these that Dean finds it hard to understand why no one else ever sees how special Seamus really is; how ridiculously simple and kind and loving the boy can be. 

“If you’re going to be the next Gryffindor ghost, you know I can’t follow you there too,” he answers affectionately.

The sounds of tearing grass stop. He goes back to his sketch as Seamus flops back onto the grass. “Oh,” Seamus says.

The silence that settles is comfortable. Overhead, the clouds part, throwing the sun on his back. Days with Seamus always feel normal. Dean picks up the green and starts drawing in the grass. “I don’t really know what my options are in the wizarding world,” Dean confesses.

“I could show you,” Seamus mumbles. He sounds far away - sleepy, and Dean’s pretty sure that Seamus’ knowledge in that area isn’t extensive. But still, the offer makes Dean feel fond and appreciated. 

He hums back softly, wondering if he could find a way to put Seamus into his picture. “I’d like that.”

-

She disarms him with a simple flourish, and Dean’s wand sparks out of his hand, spinning through the air before clattering to the floor. She smiles at him, peachy. For the umpteenth time, he thinks about how nice it would’ve been if Seamus would join him.

“Think you’ve gotten the hang of it,” Dean tells her, and she gives him a toothy smile. 

He likes her. Ron’s sister. He likes her because she’s fun, bubbly, amusing, talented and strong. He likes her because when word got out that Seamus had spat distastefully at Harry, she didn’t condemn his friend like the rest of them did. Even if Seamus did deserve some of it. 

He goes over to pick up his wand, snatching it up from the floor before a Ravenclaw steps on it.

“Sorry,” Ginny says sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to send it flying that far.”

Dean laughs. “It’s the way the spell works. The further, the better.”

Ginny has, for the most part of their DA sessions, been his duelling partner. Only because Neville had left him for the dust, going to Luna Lovegood’s side. And while it didn’t particularly bother him – because Luna and Neville made a fun pair – it did leave him with a predicament that Ginny had only been too kind to fill in for.

Dean really can’t peg when he started taking a liking to her. For a long time, she’s always just been Ron’s younger sister – someone who had been incredibly low on his radar of interesting people. But it’s been half a year, and sometimes, half a year does that to people. 

He’s known that he’s liked her for a while now. When he isn’t in class, he spends a lot of his time between conversations replaying their interactions over the DA. And guiltily, he knows, he thinks about her _over_ the conversations of his friends. Neville and Seamus have been repeating themselves for close to half a year too. 

It further fuels Dean's case in point that he doesn't find his conversations with Ginny to be boring or farce like what he pegs about eighty percent of his conversations with Lavender Brown to be. Ginny is interesting, and so alive with character. She feels different from the rest, and is easily his favourite Weasley. Not that he doesn’t like Ron – but Ron’s a bloke. _He’s_ a bloke. It’s just different.

They move off to the side while a Hufflepuff pair ensnare themselves in a needlessly heated duel. The sparks they send flying light up their corner of the room, and Dean gently pulls Ginny out of the way, fingers lingering a little longer than they should. They stand, silent and observant for a minute as the two Hufflepuffs duel.

“Hey,” Ginny says suddenly, breaking Dean’s concentration. 

“Hmm?” he says, tearing his eyes away from the two Hufflepuffs. He glances down at Ginny, who slowly angles her wand sideways, being incredibly discreet with her pointing.

“Who’s that girl? She’s in your year, right?”

Dean follows the trajectory, squinting where the wand is angled. He snorts a little when it registers. “Lavender Brown?” he says curiously. “What’s up with her?”

Ginny’s eyes flash mischievously. Dean likes that about her too. “Wanna make a bet?” she says, with confidence unparalleled. Much like when Seamus starts on one of his silly tirades about being incredibly prepared for something he really isn’t. Ginny though, has a cool air about her like she knows what she’s doing. It’s admirable, if anything. “Five Knuts,” she grins. “What do you say?”

Dean arches an eyebrow, intrigued. He leans down closer, squinting still at Lavender and Parvati duking it out. “What are we betting on?”

“Lavender Brown, of course!” Ginny says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She elbows Dean gently in the side, turning to smile mysteriously. “Five Knuts to say that she and Ron would get together. Soon.”

Dean grins. He's always known Ginny to be something special, but at this moment, he knows that she’s really one of a kind. The fire and mischief of her personality just does something for him.

“How soon are we talking about?” Dean asks, "I'll give them six months."

“Less,” she says with arid confidence. Had she always been this dazzling? “I’ll make it five,” she says and Dean laughs.

She’s cool. Seamus would like her too.

-

Divination is folly, and Dean absolutely loves it. The muggle equivalent, he thinks, is like being high on some kind of crack. Not that he’s tried, and not that he ever thinks of doing it, but as he sits there, squinting into the whirling whiteness of a crystal ball, he thinks the feeling must be pretty similar to being absolutely cheesed in the mind. 

Seamus gets the kick out of it only because Professor Trelawney has predicted Harry’s death maybe four or five times now. With everything that the Daily Prophet has been saying, Dean doesn’t doubt that Seamus is just waiting for the boy to drop dead on his own accord. 

They’re still consulting _Unfogging the Future_ , as if weeks and weeks of practice, if you could call what they did practice, has done nothing for their skills at deciphering the crystal ball code. The binding has come undone on Seamus’ copy – pages falling all over the table. 

Seamus raps a finger against the glass ball, annoyed. “We’ve been studying this since Third Year,” he complains. “I still can’t see anything.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns, trying to stifle his laughter, “she’ll tell you that you haven’t got the eyes for it.”

They watch quietly as Professor Trelawney floats across the room, almost ghost-like in her presence. She goes over to Ron and from where he sits, Dean can hear everything. 

“What do you see in his future?” she asks Ron, who hesitantly looks at Harry then down at the globe.

“Uhm, The Grim.” Ron says it in a way that sounds like he doesn’t believe it, but knows that it’s exactly what Professor Trelawney wants to hear. He’s not even trying – but he’s right, Professor Trelawney gives him an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder and praises his Inner Eye. 

“Think it’s too late to drop the subject?” Seamus says, watching from his own seat. It’s a universally accepted fact that everyone, except perhaps Lavender and Parvati, regrets having not dropped the subject the same time Hermione did. 

Dean puts a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “And leave me alone? To look at smoke myself?” 

Seamus rolls his eyes, and rewards Dean with a crooked grin. “Not smoke, Mr. Thomas,” Seamus says in an exaggerated imitation of Professor Trelawney. “The entrails of the future, my good sir.”

“Quite right, quite right my boy,” Professor Trelawney pipes, floating into view. She had finished her daily prophesising at Harry’s table and had come round to check on them. Her eyes are misty with emotions. “I’m glad at least one of us is taking this class seriously. Now let me see that.”

Dean chokes as she reaches past him with a shaking hand, scrawny and claw-like with her nails long and filed. If Dean hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought it went right at home with his little sister’s collection of Halloween backscratchers. 

She picks up the crystal ball, squinting at it with a fierce intensity, and then she gasps. And everyone knows that when she gasps, nothing good ever comes from it.

She looks at Seamus, lips pulled into a sad smile. Professor Trelawney shifts closer, and gingerly reaches out, touching Seamus on the face, squishing his cheeks and tilting him this way and that. Dean has trouble breathing with how much he wants to laugh, and he knows Seamus wants to melt away into a pool of embarrassment. 

“You poor, poor boy,” Professor Trelawney whispers, voice thick with emotions. She lets go and gives him a pat on the shoulder, quailing with the force of a sob. The discomfort is obvious in Seamus’ face. 

“Am I dying too?” he asks, utterly bewildered and embarrassed. Somewhere in the back, Harry and Ron are looking at him with an owlish quality. 

“Oh, much worse,” Professor Trelawney replies. Dean’s pretty sure there isn’t anything worse than dying but maybe he’s wrong. He watches as she pats Seamus gently on the hand, and he can tell from the way Seamus is concentrating, that it’s taking all his will power not to pull away. “Immense pain for you in the road ahead,” Professor Trelawney says sadly. 

She gravitates away, shuffling over to where Lavender and Parvati are bent over their own crystal ball, and Seamus sinks into his chair, unamused. 

“Mental,” Dean tells him, nudging him under the table with his foot. 

Seamus, on the other hand, looks a little wounded, _troubled_ even. But he catches Dean’s eyes and he grins – shining Dean with that infectious quality and Dean finds himself grinning back. “Mental,” Seamus agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm... actually not good at finishing multichaptered fics lol... uhm... i'll do my best :)
> 
> edit: wait so like i actually have 40k words written for this one but the flow of the first chapter is so bad and it's giving me a headache, so nothing's going to move until i get this fixed... lol. it's a work in progress.........


	2. 1 (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i very, very genuinely wrote a fair bit for this fic and i had it mostly planned out. but the pacing has been pretty awful since chapter 1 and i don't really know how to fix it anymore, so it doesn't feel great working on them -_- so, sporadic updates for everyone! yay!

It starts a bit comically, but then goes downhill fast. Dean watches with rapt fascination at how poorly Seamus takes Professor Trelawney’s prophecy – because if he had been quiet, and sort of out of it before, then this – whatever this is – could only be explained as a full-blown sulk. Dean thought Seamus had agreed that Professor Trelawney was nutters. Apparently not. 

Seamus is a whole lot moodier, snappier and short on patience. He sets more things on fire than he has collectively in the year, and sometimes he lays in bed, with a frown on his face that Dean really doesn’t like. He caves one Saturday afternoon when Seamus just lays in bed like a ragdoll, refusing to even head down for dinner. 

“You know, Harry’s never been like that and _he’s_ supposed to be the one dying,” Dean says, leaning against one of Seamus’ bed post. 

Seamus sniffs at him, like the brat he can sometimes be. “Ye, well, Harry only has to die.”

Dean folds his arms and moves over to sit himself where Seamus’ head lay. “You know you don’t mean that. How’s your case any worse?” 

“Immense pain, long suffering, I don’t know,” Seamus says flatly, petulant even. “It’s not fun. I don’t even get to die by the end of it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, pulling up his legs just so he can scoot nearer to the boy. “Tell me about it,” he says patiently. He’s always got lots of those in a secret reserve somewhere just for his Irish friend. 

“I think I might know what Professor Trelawney was on about,” Seamus says. He makes a face, upset. 

Dean thinks over his choice words carefully. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really, not yet.”

The answer is odd but Dean doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he reaches out and plays with Seamus’ hair. “What can you do about it? I mean, if you know what it is, you could do something about it.”

Seamus makes a noise in the back of his throat. “It’s…,” he trails off, lips screwed with a loss for words, “complicated.”

Dean sighs. “Is this about Harry?”

The pause that follows is uncomfortable. He knows Seamus never liked confronting the whole issue about Harry up-front. But if anything is complicated, it’s probably Seamus’ stance on the matter. Seamus sits up, and stares at Dean something good; there’s an odd look in his eye that looks insulted at the implication. But then-

“Yeah,” Seamus says, letting out a heavy breath. 

That makes things easier to deal with. “Do you believe Harry killed Cedric?”

Seamus makes a face. “No.” And Dean had known that too – that Seamus didn’t really believe Harry had done it. 

“Then you know that He-Who-Must-“

“We don’t know that,” Seamus says quickly, cutting him off. Dean didn’t think it’s possible but Seamus looks even more upset. Immense pain, Dean thinks, could mean a lot of things. 

So, instead, he carefully places his hand on top of Seamus’. He feels the smaller fingers flex under his palm, like a nervous reaction. “You know you’re going to need to think about these things without your mother’s input, eventually,” he says kindly; he holds Seamus’ gaze with his own. “And whatever happens you’ll always have me.”

Seamus looks at him searchingly. “Yeah?” he asks, and it sounds hopeful. Dean doesn’t know how Seamus could ever think otherwise. 

He gives his friend a wide, reassuring grin. “’Yeah.”

Seamus seems to consider that for a long moment, turning the words over in his head. “I’ll think about it some more,” he concedes finally. And then he gives Dean a smile – one bright enough to pull him out of his own funk. 

-

They’re bickering in the common room. It’s just one of the very few things that Dean enjoys to listen in on because it’s one of the last remaining shreds of semblance they have of everyday life. He is glad, though, that Neville doesn’t ask him. Because if anything, he’s completely with Seamus on this one. 

“That’s fucking disgusting, I refuse,” Seamus scowls. 

“Please, Seamus,” Neville wheedles. “Everyone knows you’re pretty good at it.”

Seamus wrinkles his nose. “Who told you that?”

Neville shrugs. “It’s a universally accepted fact.”

Seamus pulls a face. “Fuck off,” he says because he’s run out of things to say. But Neville apparently hasn’t. They’re heading straight into round two of bickering, when something beyond the norm happens.

“What’s going on?”

The new voice startles them; all three of them. Dean, who had been quietly working on his own Transfiguration essay, chokes on his own saliva. He flushes out of reflex and embarrassment. He looks up. 

“Hello,” Ginny says pleasantly. “Mind if I join you guys?” She has her textbooks neatly stacked in her hands, rolls of parchment and an ink bottle balanced precariously at the top. She looks at Dean when she addresses the question and Dean finds that his mind has gone blissfully blank. 

He looks at his friends who are staring back at him, eyes wide. The bickering all but forgotten on their tongues. 

“Y-Yeah,” he says, bewildered but also pleased. He moves to shift his bag off the empty seat next to him, painfully aware of a pair of eyes that might be staring holes right through the back of his head. He knows Hermione and Ron are sitting not too far away. 

Ginny settles into the seat next to him and makes herself comfortable in the chair. He can smell her shampoo even from a distance, and he feels the skin on his face begin to heat. His concentration takes a nosedive when Ginny places her arm a little too close to his own. He’s not sure how to name this giddy intoxication – he’s not sure if it’s _love_ but it’s definitely the tell-tale signs of a maddening crush. 

“So, what’s up?” she says, smile on her face, dimple in her cheeks. Dean thinks she might be the physical equivalent of a goddess. His heart does a stutter and a flop, and his fingers itch for a pencil and some paper. 

“I, uh, we, I mean, _they-_ ,“ Dean garbles, tongue-tied and captivated by the brown of her eyes. The clarity of it sends his mind into a fray. Ginny giggles again. Part of him is embarrassed to look at Seamus – his best friend must be rolling in his grave in a laughing fit. Or so he thinks. 

“Seamus is going to help me collect Bubotuber pus on Thursday,” Neville explains when it becomes hopelessly clear that Dean isn’t going to be any more articulate. He digs into his pocket and produces an old rusted key, half the size of his palm. He beams at Seamus. “This is the key to the cabinet with all the glass jars, by the way. You’ll need it. Oh, and the dragonhide gloves too. They’re in the drawers.”

Seamus splutters, clearly caught off momentum. It’s not every day Ginny Weasley sits with three of the most boring Gryffindor Fifth-Years. “I didn’t agree to anything!” 

“Oh, but it’s not that difficult,” Ginny quips, trying to be helpful and misunderstanding the plight. 

Seamus turns to stare at her, scowling. The flush that spreads on his face starts to glow and the freckles on his face disappear under the furious red. 

Ginny doesn’t seem to notice. She makes a motion with her hands. “You just have to grip the base and sort of gently pull upwards – it builds a bit of pressure that makes the swelling easier to pop.” 

Ginny had crossed a line. Dean can tell by the way the flush starts to bleed down Seamus’ neck, positively boiling through his skin. Which is almost strange, because the boy has never had qualms when Hermione swoops in to fix a mistake or to lecture him about trying to be clever about things. 

Dean acts fast: he nudges Seamus with a foot before an actual nuclear meltdown takes place at their table. He catches Seamus’ eyes, and in an instant, that smouldering pride defuses. The expression on Seamus’ face remains odd though, sort of pinched and constipated and _insulted_ – but the small contact does the trick and the tension leaves his body. Seamus lets out a single syllable of strangled, dry laughter that sounds almost evil. Ginny draws back a little, sensing something amiss, but she keeps on a friendly smile anyway. 

“’said it was disgusting, not _difficult_. Gimme that,” Seamus grumbles, snatching the key out of Neville’s open palm. “You owe me one.” 

“Like I said, everyone knows you’re good at making things explode,” Neville says cheerily, trying to lift the tension. Clearly, it had not gone over his head either. Seamus just narrows his eyes, lips pressed into a thin flat line. 

“Sod off,” he mumbles tartly, as he pockets the key. His irritation is hastily forced in line but teeters like a terribly made tower of Jenga. “Why can’t you make Thursday, anyway?” 

The smile slips off Ginny’s face and she looks alarmingly at Dean. The DA meeting is supposed to start at 4pm, after class. The uncomfortable silence of a topic that’s never broached falls on the four of them. It spells enough of what Seamus needs to know; he huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Don’t make appointments you can’t keep, you arse,” Seamus snips at Neville. He cuffs Neville lightly on the back of his head. And Neville, unfazed, throws his arms around Seamus and pulls him into a reluctant side-hug. For that, Dean feels something twitch funny inside him and he’s not entirely sure what that means, if anything at all. He lets it slide though, because the tension collapses and the hostility dissipates. 

-  
The DA disbands a little after 11pm. They’re a little on the later end and they all scurry out of the Room of Requirements in small waves to avoid suspicion. Dean meant to leave with Ron, Harry and Neville but Ginny catches his eye and he stays behind as the three go out the door with Hermione in tow. 

“You were really cool today,” Ginny tells him as they make their way back to the common room. They’re walking closely, a lot closer than they had been in the last few months, and it makes Dean shiver with an unsuppressed joy. Up close, she’s even prettier than he ever gave her credit for. Not that he’s never noticed. He has. 

He smiles at her, and they make small talk along the journey. He likes that they’re able to talk about things that aren’t about Umbridge, that aren’t about the Ministry, that aren’t about Dumbledore. He has a lot more fun as they share anecdotes from class and about the weird pink blob Ginny found in the pot of roast potatoes at dinner. It’s only too sad that the conversation has to end. They part at the base of the stairs leading up to the separate dorms but before she goes, Dean grabs her wrist.

“It was fun,” he tells her dumbly. As if a short ten-minute walk measured up to a full date. He supposes that in some ways, as Hogwarts is, it sort of does compare. But she smiles brightly back at him, alight and fiery, and knows she feels it too. 

He climbs up the stairs in a sort of daze, head stuck in a cloud of good feelings, barely threatened by the fact that Ron happened to be his roommate, friend and Ginny’s sister. The good feelings don’t exactly last very long though, because he swings the door into their dorm, and finds it uncharacteristically cold. The heater in the room is slowly warming up, having switched on mere moments ago. 

“He’s not back yet,” Ron says, nodding in the direction of Seamus’ bed. Which is very odd considering the hour. Dean feels his stomach do an uncomfortable flip and the severity of his everyday life comes flooding back in an unwelcomed rush of worry. 

“You don’t suppose he’s running an anti-Potter campaign somewhere, do you?” Harry grimaces, but there’s no spite in his words and for that, Dean is grateful. He knows Harry liked Seamus, and the that the disappointment of his distrust had been immeasurable. 

“He’ll be back soon,” Dean says with faux-confidence. 

“Yeah,” Neville adds, but Dean can see the worry pulling at his face. “He’s helping me with the Bubotuber pus today. They are a nasty lot so…”

“Bit late to be squeezing pus, don’t you think?” Ron mutters. 

Harry swats him. “He’ll be back soon,” Harry repeats more to himself and to Ron, as if thinking really hard about something. 

They crawl into bed and the light goes out, but Dean lays where he is, wide awake, for what feels like eternity. He trusts Seamus with all his heart, but he’s sure he didn’t misread the distrust in Ron and Harry. And it is warranted too, since Seamus hasn’t given them reason to be friendly. But he can’t stop the roiling in his stomach that tells him something bad might have happened; and he knows Neville thinks so too. 

He’s still awake, anxiety having formed a solid knot in his stomach, when Seamus comes back to the dorm – it doesn’t really matter though because Seamus has never really been known to be quiet. Dean could’ve been asleep and he would have been alerted to Seamus’ presence with the way the boy trips over something before colliding his toes against his own trunk. A litany of foul words explodes out of Seamus’ mouth in an endless slew of mutterings both in English and Irish and a string of colourful wizarding words Dean’s never heard.

Dean, despite the worry twisting inside him, sits up and grins himself something funny. He fumbles with the lamp on his desk, casting a small circle of illumination between their beds. When it clicks on, Seamus nearly jumps out of his skin. “Blimey, mate,” he says, sort of out of it. “Don’t scare me like that.” Then he squints a little and says,” What- Are you fuckin’ laughing at me?”

“You were very loud,” Dean says behind a snicker. 

“It hurts, is what it is,” Seamus says flatly, nose scrunching up in mock offense. It’s endearing, and welcoming, like nothing has changed. There is comfort in being with Seamus, the familiarity makes his anxiety flutter away briefly. 

Dean takes a glance at the bedside clock, surprised to find that it reads a little after one. Students aren’t allowed to wander that late at night. It would take a lot of grace and deft to actually slip by without being noticed – qualities that Seamus doesn’t particularly have. He watches as Seamus undoes his tie, hanging it over the bedframe. The white of his skin looks almost pearlescent in the moonlight from the window. 

“Where’ve you been?” Dean asks around a yawn while Seamus starts to undress. He thinks he sees Seamus’ hands still over a particular button of his shirt, fingers twitching slightly before they continue to move down the line of buttons. But his eyes are also watering from the yawn and it’s not particularly bright in the room anyway. 

“Bubotubers,” Seamus grumbles haughtily. 

“Did it get you?”

“What?”

“The pus. Did you have to see Madam Pomfrey?”

There’s a pause, as if Seamus is considering the truth. Then he says, “Nah, it just took a while, is all.” Somehow, Dean thinks that’s only half the truth, but doesn’t press. 

When Seamus is done dressing for bed, rolled up deep under the covers with the blanket pulled all the way to his chin, Dean turns off the lamp. They lie there in endless silence as they stare at the canopy of their poster beds. He knows the conversation isn’t over just by the way the air seems to settle around them.

Seamus speaks first. His voice is quiet; the quietest Dean has ever heard him be. He sounds exhausted, a kind of emotional taxation that isn’t required when collecting Bubotuber pus. “Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like to not be in Harry’s year?” 

The question takes him by surprise because it’s just not the type of thing to bother Seamus. They’ve both – Neville included – been overshadowed by the domineering presence of Harry. With him and Ron running all over the place, it’s almost impossible to exist a single year without something awful happening at Hogwarts. But it’s not like they minded terribly – at least Dean thought they didn’t. 

He strains his ears listening to the breathing of the other boys around them, making sure no one else is awake. Somewhere across the room, Ron snorts and Harry thrashes. Licking his lips, Dean maintains a low volume and whispers back, “Does it bother you?”

A pause and then: “A bit.”

Dean feels his insides begin to twist again, but for different reasons. Not because of the admission but because Seamus sounds so confused, upset and _vulnerable_. It’s not a look Dean likes on his best friend. He hoists himself up on his elbows to look at his friend, but Seamus has his back to him, bed hangings pulled halfway across to hide his head. He tries a different question. “Do you blame Harry?”

There’s a rustling as Seamus shifts under the covers. “No,” he says quietly, but with conviction. 

Dean minces his words carefully. “Do you hate Harry?” 

And quieter still, Seamus says,” No.”

-

Dean isn’t sure if he imagined the conversation because the weeks roll by like nothing has changed. Seamus is up and kicking and making a menace of himself to the Slytherins as he always seems to do. There is no trace of any of that vulnerable confusion from that night. 

It’s almost as if whatever’s been clogging the pipes in his head had unstuck because Seamus upends Crabbe’s cauldron during potions over a tiff about Lace Winged Flies and made Goyle’s potion explode in his face. The total damage had costed him 25 points and won him a golden ticket to detention with Snape. And everyone knows you have to be absolutely mental to bring down the wrath of Snape upon yourself. 

-

The letter falls onto his toast one Friday morning before Muggle Studies, jerking Dean out of a sleepy haze. Although incredibly fun, post by owl also does have its flaws; it takes all of Dean’s efforts to pull the envelope off without getting any of the jam on his fingers. He flips it over and feels his breath catch in his throat. Underneath a film of cranberry jam, he sees the unmistakable handwriting that belongs to his little sister.

“Whatcha got?” Seamus asks, unfurling his own mail. It’s a copy of the Daily Prophet. He takes one look at the front page and then chucks it aside, disinterested. Dean thinks he might have caught a photo of Harry moving on the front. The perseverance of the Ministry certainly isn’t without merit. 

“It’s from my sister,” he breathes out. He looks excitedly at Seamus who is leaning in, arms folded over his side of the table. “You reckon-?”

“I dunno! Open it, mate,” Seamus says. 

Dean rips open the envelope, but finds his hands are shaking a little too much to do much else. He sees the folded pink stationery inside the envelope, stickers decorating the back of the letter obscuring anything that might have shown from the ink that has bled through the sheet. 

He looks up nervously, palms sweaty. “I’m uhm… Nervous,” Dean admits. It’s not even _his_ future, but he loves his sisters. Her disappointment would be his disappointment too. He wants her to go to that secondary school as much as if it were his own. 

Seamus inclines his head to the side. He slides an open hand across the table. “I’ll hold your hand,” Seamus offers, smiling kindly but voice serious. Dean doesn’t notice the way Seamus’ other fingers twitch almost anxiously. “For good luck, of course,” Seamus adds quickly. 

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Because you’re Irish?”

Seamus’ eyes twinkle, mouth splitting into a wide grin. His ears start to turn red. “Ye, something like that.”

It is enough for Dean, and so he puts his hand in Seamus’, comforted by the gentle squeeze he feels. Using his free hand, he wrangles the letter out of the envelope. His fingers are still trembling when he unfolds it, and he feels another encouraging squeeze from Seamus. He scans the letter while Seamus studies the patchwork medley of the stickers on the back.

Reading the letter, Dean thinks, is as good as Seamus finding out the Kenmare Kestrals had won in the tournament last year. He lowers the letter, smiling himself silly at Seamus, feeling some kind of wetness in his eye from the immense pride welling in his chest. He gives a proud nod, a little too choked up to say much else. 

“’s it good news?” Seamus asks, eyes round and wide. 

Dean nods again, slowly and then vigorously. And it’s all Seamus needs. He squeezes Dean’s hand tightly and lets out a loud cheer, accosting him a disapproving look from Hermione. 

“I told you,” Seamus says proudly as he lets go of Dean’s hand, a sudden coldness sweeping through the gaps of his fingers. “I told you she’d be great.”

Dean beams, suddenly very hungry. He picks up the piece of toast and takes a healthy bite, feeling somehow unstoppable. “Yeah, you did.”

-

The Quibbler is Umbridge’s next vendetta. Seamus stares at the notice blearily, not quite believing his eyes. 

“ _The Quibbler?_ ” He half-yells. The other students crowding around the notice all pull away, glaring at him distastefully. “ _The Quibbler’s_ supposed to be rubbish, innit?”

“Don’t be rude,” Dean chides. But from what everyone else has been saying, Seamus isn’t wrong to think so. Still, he wants him to read it and he also wants to do service to Luna, whom Neville seems pretty infatuated with lately.

“But it’s true,” Seamus protests, tone without malice. 

Dean shrugs innocently. “Maybe we should get a copy,” he suggests with nonchalance; he does his best to remain as impartial as he can. “Maybe we’ll find out what got Umbridge’s knickers in a twist.”

They move away from the notice before the throng of people becomes impossible. Although it does nothing for the look of revulsion on Seamus’ face as they move towards the Great Hall. “Who says that anyway? ‘Knickers in a twist’? That’s disturbing, mate. Do you say that to your mam?”

Dean lightly bumps Seamus’ head with his fist. He does his best to conceal his mirth. “Wands in a knot, same thing.”

“Then say that instead!”

The Great Hall, as it seems, is all abuzz with the news. Down every few students or another, someone has a copy of _The Quibbler_ tucked under the table, hidden surreptitiously from view. Seamus is frowning distractedly at a Seventh-Year Gryffindor who has her own copy laid beside her on the bench.

It pleases Dean when, over breakfast, he hears his friend mutter, “Maybe I’ll ask her for it later… What’s it got other than Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?”

-

Things in the castle get significantly worse from there. Umbridge starts recruiting students to prowl the grounds for her. The Inquisitor Squad is made of a bunch of low-lives who think it’s incredibly wily to strut around with a new fancy badge, exercising poor authority over the student autonomy. It surprises no one when Malfoy and his cronies are the first to enlist. 

If Dean had previously believed that to be the worst of it, he finds out how terribly wrong he is. The words get passed around in hushed whispers, a low buzz of fear and doubt spreading amongst the student body: about how a Sixth-Year from Ravenclaw got pulled aside on her way back from the Great Hall for a gruelling five-hour interrogation by Umbridge. 

The whole of Hogwarts splits right down the middle with people beginning to suspect Umbridge and those who start to loathe Harry; people who begin to develop an incurable distaste for The Boy Who Lived, blaming him for the ridiculousness of the situation they’re all finding themselves in. 

“Dunno what he’s doing, but if he could just stop it. He’s not doing anyone any favours,” a Third-Year Gryffindor girl says scathingly over dinner, voice pitched a little too loudly above the din. Hermione shoots her a withering look and, together with Ron, drags Harry away. 

-

Dean returns to the dorm one evening, just before dinner to drop off his things. He finds Harry and Ron huddled up in their corner of the room, talking frustratedly amongst themselves. He had been planning on dumping his bag and leaving them as they were, intent on heading straight for dinner to get first dibs on the garlic soup that’s on the day’s menu. 

But Harry stops him two paces through the door. “Hey, uhm, Dean,” Harry starts. He sounds apologetic already, and Dean braces himself for what he knows is coming. “You, uhm, don’t happen to know if he’s joined the Inquisitor Squad, do you?”

He watches as Harry’s eyes flicker to Seamus’ empty bed and Dean barely finds his voice, a little insulted at the accusation. “He wouldn’t do that, mate,” Dean says, surprised by the curtness of his tone. He’s pretty sure Seamus wouldn’t want a dodgy old badge. 

“You’ve not told him anything about the DA meetings, have you?” Ron asks, as if sizing him up. 

“We don’t talk about it, no,” Dean scowls.

“Sorry,” Harry says, still apologetic, “and thanks.” Dean isn’t quite sure what he’s thankful for, but he nods and heads out the door, book bag still with him. 

-

The DA meetings are a lot less rowdy and a lot more serious. There is a thrumming of nervous energy running through everyone, like electricity passing through hot wire. Everyone’s on edge, worried they’ll get caught. But they don’t let it stop them. 

They’re taking turns to practice a different disarmament charms when Dean picks up a conversation that gives him the same lurch in his stomach. His wand stills in mid-air as he hears the Hufflepuffs hold discussion behind him.

“You ever seen what they did to the back of Harry’s hand?” Ernie Macmillan grimaces. “I heard Umbridge does that to people who don’t confess to what they know.”

“Oh, don’t,” Hannah Abbott wails, magic going out with a fizz, concentration clearly shaken. “It was awful, what they did to that Ravenclaw girl.”

“I heard it’s been happening for a while now,” Ernie continues, jowls quivering with an unsuppressed rage. “It’s only more pronounced now that the Inquisitorial Squad is a thing. You wouldn’t think this place a school with how it’s run.” 

“How much longer do you think this will keep up?”

“I don’t know… It’s only a matter of time before someone finds out, I think…”

Dean doesn’t want to hear any more – he walks away to another part of the room, joining Neville and Luna. He feels ill with doubt and even more, with guilt. He tries his best to send off a disarming charm against one of the many silver armours around the room but his mind is barely in it and his wand shoots out a pathetic spark. Neville looks at him with concern. 

Luna, bless her soul, rotates away from them and in a split second, has Ginny running up to his side. 

“Hey,” Ginny says quietly, rushing in to pull him out of his own misery. She takes his arm and leads him away to a quiet corner of the room, and Neville trails after them. “You feeling alright?” she asks, in that voice like honey. 

He offers her a weak smile. “Grand,” he tells her even though that’s far from the truth.

“Are you sick? You look awful,” Ginny says worriedly. She reaches up to touch his forehead, her fingers cool to the burning in his mind. He smiles appreciatively, thankful for how grounding she can be when everything is just so confusing. 

“I’ll say,” Neville pipes, unhelpfully. 

Ginny pats him on the back and goes to get him a goblet of water. Sensing it best to give him some breathing space, Luna glides after Ginny, leaving him with the swirling mess of thoughts that’s confuddling his mind. And with Neville. Good, ol’ Neville. 

“What’s wrong?” Neville says finally, when Ginny is out of earshot. He slides into one of the squashy chairs nearby, sinking blissfully into the softness of it. “We should bring these back to the common room.”

Dean smiles meekly, and Neville drops the act too. He sits up straighter, and shifts to the edge of his seat. “You’re looking very bothered.”

Dean sags. “Kinda, yeah.” 

Neville tuts. “Is this about Seamus?”

Dean winces, embarrassed. He didn’t realise how easy it is to read him. But Neville sighs with his whole body, like the gush of air had been dredged up from the deepest core of his body, rattling all his bones and carrying the weight of immense sagacity. 

“I like Seamus,” Neville tells him. “He’s very kind. Vulgar but kind.” 

Dean nods in agreement but says nothing in return; he has nothing to offer. Neville blinks at him some more and sighs again, “Kind people can make wrong choices, but Seamus is no traitor. You know, he probably thinks about this a whole lot more than he lets on.” 

“It doesn’t upset you?” Dean asks glumly. He looks over to where Harry is guiding Cho Chang, coaxing her to gently wave her wand in a series of motions. 

“No?” Neville answers like he’s confused as to why Dean’s confused. “Why should I be?”

Dean makes a gesture. “I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if Seamus could just open his eyes? Join us maybe? Then Harry and Ron wouldn’t be so wary about him.”

Neville blinks at him, slowly. “Yeah, ‘course. It’d be a lot more fun.”

“But he’s not,” Dean says sadly. “With us, I mean.”

“Well, no,” Neville answers casually, like he’s still not getting the memo. He twirls his own wand in his hand, thoughtful. “But can you blame him? He spent an entire summer with his family smearing Harry’s name. And the news too – on the Daily Prophet, almost every single day.”

“But you’re not like that.”

“My Gran’s not like that. If it were that easy, you’d think the entire school would be a part of the DA.”

Dean blinks. He hadn’t thought about that – about how ridiculously small the movement against Umbridge is despite the vitriol that goes around Hogwarts. The truth sounds obvious – easy to pick apart – but maybe it isn’t after all. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Harry’s our friend, though. I think we owe him that much.”

But Neville looks at him kind of sadly, as if there’s a greater truth Dean’s missing. “I think that makes it harder for Seamus more than anyone else who’s on that side of the argument.”

It speaks volumes of Neville’s trust in Seamus, and Dean feels the same shame of guilt bubbling right under his skin again. 

The conversation drops when Ginny returns with water. He eases into the warmth of her comfort, instantly quelling his frustrations. He doesn’t quite notice when Fred and George make waggly eyebrows at him. And he wonders quietly, what Seamus is doing back in the Gryffindor common room. 

-

It happens almost two weeks after _The Quibbler_ gets banned. Dean comes back one evening from detention with Professor Trelawney – “How on earth did you manage to get detention with Professor Trelawney of all people. She hasn’t got a spine,” Hermione had said behind a poorly-concealed laugh – to find a battered copy of the Quibbler on Seamus’ bedside. 

Seamus doesn’t say anything about it for a while; his eyebrows constantly drawn in deep thought. Dean is reminded of The Thinker on many occasions, what with how Seamus is constantly bent over, mind stewing. The thinking, Dean notes, is incredibly loud – only because of how ridiculously quiet it makes Seamus, as if he can’t quite handle the tenacity of thinking and talking at the same time. Neville says to be patient, but Dean just wants to poke fun at him. 

The iron wall finally tears down one afternoon while they’re waiting in line outside of Transfiguration. Seamus pulls himself out of the queue and apologises to Harry’s knee; pride swallowed, ears bright. The relief – and it is very sweet – rolls over all the Gryffindor boys since they’re all finally, _finally_ , on the same side of the coin. Neville gives Seamus a big hug with the boy spitting in resistance. 

“Thank Merlin for that,” Ron says once Seamus scurries away into the classroom. “I was starting to worry I’d have to be mean to him for the next two years.” 

Inside, Dean plops himself into the seat next to Seamus. The boy is staring resolutely at his textbook, pretending very hard not to notice anything around him. The corner of the page starts smouldering and out of reflex, Dean shakes his friend’s shoulder to break the intensity of whatever it is he’s subconsciously doing. 

“If you’re going to make fun of me-“ Seamus blabbers, lilt strong in his apparent shame. 

“No, no,” Dean cuts him off. He points to the corner of the page that has a trail of smoke rising, and Seamus quickly snubs it out with his thumb and forefinger. 

“I thought it was brave,” Dean says casually after a period of time. Seamus is still sitting stiffly beside him – posture so straight Dean thinks he could maybe draw a straight line if he laid Seamus down on a large piece of paper. The boy doesn’t give any semblance of having heard, but Dean knows better than that.

Today, they’re transfiguring thumbtacks into napkins. Dean takes down notes dutifully half the time and spends the other half doodling in the white spaces of his textbook. In a very random moment of epiphany, while drawing a leprechaun and a pot of gold, Dean recalls when Seamus had held his hand in a show of comfort. He thinks he could return the sentiment in kind but remembers dourly that he’s not Irish and has no reason to hold Seamus’ hand at all. 

When the books are out of the way, Professor McGonagall conjures up a handful of thumbtacks onto each table.

“Are you worried?” Dean asks finally once the lecture is over and the practical begins; he only asks because he knows that look on Seamus’ face and it means he’s worried. Worried about his mother, his O.W.L.s, what Harry and the others must think of him. His lower lip is also pink and swollen from having been worried between teeth for the better part of the last hour. 

“No,” Seamus replies hotly, voice loud enough that Parvati tuts him from across the room.

Parvati isn’t the only one displeased. Professor McGonagall walks over and taps their desk with her wand. 

“And what is it exactly that has us so vexed over at this table?” She barely gives them time to reply, eyes roving over their faces as if she can see through their skull. She folds her arms over her chest. “Where is your wand, Mr. Finnigan?” McGonagall chides, exasperation bleeding into her words. “May I remind you that your O.W.L.s are just weeks away. You would do well to focus.” 

Seamus fumbles for his wand, pulling it out of his robes while McGonagall walks away. Dean didn’t think Seamus could go any redder, but alas. In some ways, it is entertaining. His heart does a little squeeze of affection. 

They spend the rest of Transfiguration trying to turn the thumbtacks into napkins, Dean with minimal success and Seamus with relative ease. Dean knows, though, that while he’s been running off to the DA – while all of Seamus’ friends have been running off to the DA – the boy had spent majority of those empty hours with his only remaining companions: textbooks. So, he really shouldn’t be surprised, but he is anyway. Because Seamus? Studying? Blasphemy. 

When they’re packed to leave, heading their separate ways, Seamus tugs him to a stop. “Reckon Harry would let me join in on your next session?” he mumbles, eyes squinting at the floor and fist curling into the sleeves of Dean’s robes. 

And for one very strange minute, Dean thinks he might actually want to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah... :c
> 
> i tried very hard to match up the stuff in the book with the fic as much as i could canonically, but like. it's hard. i don't wanna write a fic that's longer than the actual book lol


End file.
